


Obedience

by Resilur



Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Forced Bootlicking, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26561155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resilur/pseuds/Resilur
Summary: As he holds the party captive, Kuja decides to demand a little extra "proof" from Zidane that he'll do as told in Oeilvert.
Relationships: Kuja/Zidane Tribal
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	Obedience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HidingInYourShadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HidingInYourShadow/gifts).



“On your knees.”

Zidane glared, but after a brief internal battle he slowly knelt. “Closer. Don’t get up,” Kuja halted him with a smirk. “Crawl, instead.”

So that’s how it was going to be. Zidane took a deep breath. The others’ lives were at stake. He just needed to play Kuja’s little games and get it over with.

Kuja waited until he was right in front of the chair, at his feet before issuing his next demand. “Now lick my boots.”

Zidane balked. “You can’t be serious!”

Kuja merely arched an eyebrow. “Does that mean you want me to demonstrate just how serious I am?”

Zidane continued to stare at him in incredulous anger, but then Kuja gestured almost lazily and the grinding rumble broke through.

“Stop!” He almost leapt to feet, but forced himself to bow his head instead. “I’ll do it damnit.” He let out a small sigh of relief as the rumbling ceased.

No choice. He bent closer and the first reluctant lick nearly made him gag at the overwhelming taste of leather and polish. He tried to keep each lick short and quick; he had no interest in bothering to pretend he wanted to be here. All he wanted was for Kuja to get bored as soon as possible.

“Now really, even as thick as you are, I’m certain you can do a better job than this.” Kuja tutted, affecting an air of disappointment that made Zidane long to stab him even more. “I believe my instructions were quite simple enough.”

There was a pointed pause before he continued, voice deceptively mild. “Is this truly you how you wish to demonstrate how well you will follow orders?”

Zidane scowled, very nearly snarling at the clearly implied threat. Clenching his fists, he kept his head down with effort – he knew if he took one look at that bastard’s smugly amused face he’d probably lose it – and took a slow, deep breath.

Kuja had all the power here, and oh, did he know it. As much as it was killing him not to even try to fight back, Zidane had to remember it, too.

He forced himself to switch to long, broad strokes, pressing firmly against the leather. Kuja hummed in approval, making Zidane’s gut twist in disgust. There was another pleased noise as he ran his tongue over the brass buckles.

Zidane tried his hardest to simply ignore him, even as he moved reluctantly upward, but it was made difficult by Kuja’s insistence on giving him instructions and “tips.”

“Hm, more to your left, now, I think,” he said after a particularly sickening moan. “I want every inch washed.” Face burning, and nearly trembling in poorly repressed rage and humiliation, Zidane continued to do as he was told.

He was nearly at the top of the boot now, and he hesitated again as bare skin came into sight.

A hand came to rest on Zidane’s head, before beginning to slowly card through his hair. It played its way lower, tracing his jawline.

Zidane yanked his head away. Kuja gave a small chuckle, but only said, “Keep going.”

Zidane screwed his eyes shut, reminded himself just what was at stake, and continued along the leather-encased thigh.

Then he reached the edge, and it took everything he had to take a single swipe across the crease where it met skin. Kuja let out a long sigh of pleasure, and Zidane couldn’t force himself to continue, shivering in revulsion – and in despair that he was trying as hard as he could not to acknowledge.

Kuja waited a long moment before humming thoughtfully. He grabbed Zidane by the hair, yanking his head back. “And if I were to insist you continue farther up,” he practically purred, “just what would you do?”

Whatever showed on Zidane’s face made his smile widen, and he shifted in his seat with another long, horrifically satisfied sigh.

Then he stood suddenly, dragging Zidane with him to stand in front of a large, ornate table.

“Hands on the table.” Zidane growled under his breath, but complied. “One over the other. _Stop_.”

The spell took hold instantly. He couldn’t blink, couldn’t even _breathe_. Dread washed over him in a wave; he was completely, utterly helpless.

The knife Kuja pulled out was slender, almost delicate. He began tracing over Zidane’s skin. He could feel the pressure of it, but no pain, and his skin didn’t split under its edge – it couldn’t, not yet.

Zidane knew exactly how the delay of a stop spell worked.

Kuja pressed himself firmly against his back. using one hand to press down on his wrists, as if it were necessary to prevent him from moving. Then he brought the knife forward to hover over Zidane’s hands.

His intent was instantly clear, but he lingered on the moment anyway, leaving Zidane as furious as he was terrified. He wasn’t even able to physically brace himself, despite knowing full well what was coming.

Kuja brought the point down almost languidly – at first. But Zidane could feel the pressure building as he slowly applied more and more force against the still unmarred skin.

Then the spell was released, and the knife drove straight through his hands and deep into the wood of the table.

Zidane screamed. Instinctively, he thrashed, sending even more shards of agony stabbing through his hands, matching the pain of the suddenly-appearing gashes over his whole body. His legs gave out, and the only reason he didn’t collapse to the floor was because of Kuja bracing him between his chest and the table’s edge.

Kuja tipped his head up by the chin, forcing Zidane to meet his eyes as he loomed over him. He brushed his lips across his forehead, an amused smile on his face.

Zidane’s breathing was uneven, as tremors continued to wrack his body. He couldn’t stop the whimper as Kuja caressed his forcibly-bared throat.

“You know,” Kuja whispered, breath ghosting across Zidane’s face, “you’ve actually been much more entertaining to play with than I had expected.”

Then Kuja pulled out a second knife and slashed his throat without a moment’s hesitation.

Zidane tried to scream, in mixed surprise and horror, but all that came out was a strangled gurgle as he began choking on his own blood. And the whole time, Kuja continued to hold his head in place, so the only thing he could see as his consciousness bled away was Kuja’s vaguely amused smile.

The first thing he felt again was the tingling of a revival spell washing over him, mixing with the chill of shock. He flinched, hissing in pain from half-healed wounds. The bastard had deliberately cast it weakly – Zidane knew full damn well he could have done better.

Right. Focus on the anger, not the horror, not the fact that Kuja had just casually slit his throat while he was helplessly pinned to a table – 

_Stop it._ He tried to clench his fists, and this time the sharp stab of agony was almost welcome in how it chased away his ability to think.

Gradually, he realized he had sagged to his knees, arms awkwardly pulled to where he was stilled pinned. Another massive shudder ran through him as Kuja caressed his throat, running fingers through half-congealed blood. He was actually _chuckling_ lightly.

It was a struggle to get to his feet, his bloody arms sliding and sticking on the table, tugging at his skin and reopening cuts. It was a laborious process, and he was gasping for breath and leaning heavily on the table the whole way through. Kuja _oh so generously_ let him – and damn but did that thought make Zidane burn with humiliation.

He shuddered as Kuja pressed close again, encircling him in his arms and running his hands over his skin, soft caresses that perversely focused on the numerous cuts.

Then he took hold of the pinned knife, and Zidane’s vision practically whited out in pain as he began working it mercilessly from side to side, until at last it pulled free from table – and Zidane’s hands. Kuja spun him around, leaning in until he was forced over half-backwards and had to grip the edge of the table to brace himself.

Then a hand tangled tightly in his hair and lips were pressed roughly over his own.

His mouth slid open in shock – it wasn’t like he didn’t know it was coming, that bastard had made things plenty damn obvious, but he was too off-balance and it was so _sudden_ – and Kuja wasted no time in forcing his tongue inside.

And Zidane let him. He screwed his eyes shut, entire body tensed as a bowstring… but he didn’t resist.

He couldn’t. Fear, pain, the threat to Dagger and the others… it was all becoming far too much, he couldn’t even begin to think straight. He just wasn’t able to fight back.

Kuja took his time, leisurely exploring his mouth, invading every nook and crevice, as Zidane shuddered under him. It felt like an eternity before Kuja finished, but even then he didn’t pull away. Instead, Zidane felt his lips brush against his ear.

“So I see you knew better than to even consider biting,” he whispered, and Zidane could practically hear the smug smile in his voice.

Kuja’s other hand suddenly came to rest on his back, before slipping down into his pants.

Zidane flinched hard, and he still had enough presence of mind to hate himself a little for it – this wasn’t a surprise, he’d known it was coming, damn it, he had more control of himself than this!

And Kuja simply _laughed_ – not faintly as before, but instead loudly and long – before suddenly pulling away.

Zidane heard him cast a healing spell, and as the unexpected warmth washed over him he slowly opened his eyes, confused and suspicious, to see Kuja casually walking away.

“I suppose it’s time I summon your little friends so you can be off,” he said without bothering to turn around. Zidane remained frozen, barely comprehending. But Kuja’s next words cut through him like a knife.

“I trust I’ve given you ample reason to hurry back. You wouldn’t want me to have any doubts as to your return, now would you?”


End file.
